by Scott Sigler
The clear dome gave off brilliant reflections from Ionath’s sun. The sprawling city looked like a reddish egg, sunny-side up, with the dome being the yolk. As the shuttle approached the city, Quentin could see how Ionath Stadium got it’s nickname — the round stadium sat right under the dome’s center, and from this far up looked like an iris to the dome’s cornea. The Big Eye. His new home, at least for this season.
Circular streets surrounded the dome in ever-widening bands, like flash-frozen ripples from a pebble dropped in a pond. Straight streets also radiated outward from the dome. Or more accurately, Quentin noticed, all streets led into the city center — straight to the stadium.
“I hear they really know how to party in Ionath City,” Yassoud said, a wide smile on his face. “I can’t wait to get out on the town.”
“Isn’t it a bit radioactive out there?”
Yassoud rolled his eyes. “Come on, hick — I’m not going into the outer city, I’m talking about nightlife under the dome. There’s hundreds of bars and restaurants. And women. Lots of women.”
Yassoud cast a glance back at the staring Sklorno receivers. “Human women,” he said, giving Quentin a friendly elbow. “Unless you’re committed to your harem over there.”
Quentin’s face turned red again, a feeling to which he was unfortunately becoming accustomed.
Red was also the predominant color of Ionath City. From outside the dome, buildings looked rugged and somewhat organic, more like they’d been grown than built. The tallest ones topped out at around thirty stories.
The shuttle dove straight for the dome. The clear surface seemed to open like a living thing, and the shuttle passed through without slowing. Once inside the dome, the buildings looked more like what he’d seen in the Purist Nation’s largest cities: towering, hexagonal structures with sides of smooth crystametal. The tallest buildings, thirty to forty stories high, seemed to surround Ionath Stadium as if they wanted to peer down and watch the games. Only buildings at the dome center could hit such heights — the buildings farther out grew progressively smaller as the dome sloped down to meet the ground.
Quentin saw a huge holo ad running down the side of the city’s tallest building — a quarterback dropping back for a pass, some words in Quyth. At first he thought it was Pine, but the player wore number seven — Yitzhak’s number.
“Is that who I think it is?”
Yassoud nodded. “Yes indeed.”
“What is that ad for?”
Yassoud stared for a moment, his lips moving slightly as he sounded out the Quyth writing. “Oh yep, now I remember, it’s an ad for Junkie Gin.”
“Junkie Gin? But it’s the biggest ad in the city, and it’s Yitzhak.
Why not Pine?”
“Because Yitzhak was born here, my friend. The Quyth Workers just love him, and they’re the biggest market in any Quyth culture because there’s so many of them. He doesn’t see much playing time, but he makes more endorsement money than anyone else on the team. Pine included.”
The shuttle dove towards the roof of a hexagonal, ten-story building attached to the stadium. Closer into the city, Quentin saw holo ads everywhere — on buildings, on sidewalks, floating above the streets. The innumerable ads gave the city a garish, carnival feel. At least half of those ads featured Krakens’ players.
Even before the shuttle fully touched down, a pack of Quyth Workers swarmed out, ready to unload the players’ baggage. Quentin and the other rookies stepped off the shuttle into the heat and high humidity of Ionath City.
Hokor was waiting for them, already sitting in his stupid flying cart. Next to the cart stood a Quyth worker wearing a neat blue jacket. Quentin thought the Worker looked rather like a bellboy or a doorman at some of the fancier Purist Nation hotels.
“This is Messal the Efficient,” Hokor said to the rookies. “He will lead you to the locker room. Suit up and get your worthless asses to the field. Our scrimmage starts in thirty minutes. Remember, in two days at noon we kick off against the Woo Wallcrawlers. We must win this game. Tomorrow’s practice will be a no-contact walk-through, so today is your last chance to show me what you’ve got.”
With that, Hokor’s cart lifted up from the roof and flew off the edge, gently descending to the field. Quentin saw the veterans and the other players, just specks from this far, already on the field. He knew Pine would be down there, probably planning his next humiliating joke.
We’ll see, Quentin thought. We’ll just see.
• • •
QUENTIN SUITED UP quickly and ran out of the arching gate in the orange end zone. The seats, all 185,000 of them, sat empty. The quiet, massive structure reminded him of the Deliverance Temple in Landing City, built where Mason Stewart’s scout craft had first touched down on new, holy soil. That historic moment marked the end of the Exodus from Earth, where Stewart and his four million surviving followers founded the Purist Church colony that would grow into to the four-planet Purist Nation. Quentin didn’t have to be a convert to appreciate the powerful feeling of awe inspired by Deliverance Temple, just as he suspected someone didn’t need to be a football fan to admire Ionath Stadium.
He knelt and rubbed his hands over the field’s blue surface. At first he thought it was painted, but up close he saw that playing surface was made up of densely packed, circular blue leaves, each smaller than his pinky nail. He pushed his hand down, feeling the blue plant give, then lifted his hand and watched it spring back.
Yassoud knelt next to him. “Getting in a quick prayer, Q?”
Quentin smiled. “No, just checking out the field. Never stood on this stuff before.”
“Nice, isn’t it? I heard it’s actually a plant that’s native to Ionath. Called Iomatt. When they took over the planet, they got some from a plant museum, or something like that.”
Quentin stood and ran a few steps, taking an experimental cut.
“Good resistance. Not quite as firm as the Carsengi Grass I’m used to, but not bad.”
The other rookies filed past them, drawing their attention back to the task at hand. Hokor sat on the 50-yard line, in his cart, of course, surrounded by Krakens players. Humans, Quyth Warriors, Sklorno, and — for the first time since he’d arrived — the huge and nightmarish Ki. The Ki were packed into two tight balls, each a mass of legs, tubular bodies and black eyes, like pictures of multi-headed demons Quentin had seen back on Micovi. One of the piles of Ki players wore black jerseys, for the defense, while the other pile wore orange, for the offense. Pine, Yitzhak and Quentin wore bright red jerseys — the standard football color for designating a “do not hit” player.
“In two days, we face off against the Woo Wallcrawlers,” Hokor said. “It’s a good start for us, as we know they have trouble with our offensive speed. They also went 2–7 last year, but don’t let that fool you into thinking this is an easy victory. It’s the opening game of the season, and we have to win it if we’re going to reach Tier One this year.”
The players gave signs of agreement — nods from the Humans, Quyth Warriors rubbing their pedipalps together, unintelligible chirps and lolling tongues from the Sklorno, and the Ki clacking their arms against their chest. Quentin didn’t know how to read the other races, but he could see the commitment in the eyes of the Human players. They wanted to win, they wanted to reach Tier One.
“First offense,” Hokor called out over his cart’s loudspeaker. “Opening series.”
Quentin jogged to the sidelines. Pine, the arrogant idiot, ran to the huddle with a confident stride. That was Quentin’s huddle. He’d get it back, that was for sure. The ancient quarterback would have to make room for new blood.
Quentin stopped when he reached the sidelines, and looked at the medical bays behind the bench. Five full bays, like a military field hospital. Re-juv tanks, cabinets that held bandages, surgical equipment and other things to help Doc and his staff repair damaged players and get them back on the field. Quentin could see just by looking that the med-bays were more advanced than anyt
hing he’d seen in the Purist Nation, even in a hospital. The bays were a reminder of the speed and strength and violence of the GFL — that and the money involved, because a hurt player was a wasted investment. Patch ‘em up and put ‘em back in.
Pine broke the huddle and the orange-jersey offense started on its own 20-yard line. The black-jersey defense lined up in a 4–3 set, showing woman-to-woman coverage. Quentin had never seen real GFL football in person, and it was an awesome sight to behold: the Ki linemen were thick, wide, six-foot-tall obstacles, like little buildings with legs, their spider-like, chitinous arms clacking against their chests as they talked to each other in their rhythmic combat language. The Quyth Warrior linebackers bounced in place, one-eyed creatures clad in thick Riddell padding. Sklorno receivers and defensive backs, with thin pads to allow for pure speed, gracefully flowed from one place to the next, almost as if they had no bones at all.
The first play was an off-tackle run by Mitchell Fayed, who even at three-quarter speed hit the hole harder than any PNFL running back Quentin had ever seen. Fayed came through the line, only to be met head-on by Choto the Bright, the right outside linebacker. With a loud “clack” of pads the two players hit hard — Fayed managed two more short steps before Choto dragged him to the ground.
A shiver ran through Quentin’s body. Drills were one thing, an important thing, but football is about hitting, and with that first clash of starting offense against starting defense the season was actually on. The veterans had been practicing for months, but for the rookies, this was their first Upper Tier contact experience.
Pine guided the offense through the first series, mostly running plays. When he did drop back, he threw short, accurate passes. In his first twenty plays, he threw downfield only twice for one completion. Twice the defense got to Pine, but both times they slowed up before hitting him and just put a hand (or the applicable appendage) on his shoulder.
Yitzhak came in next and, by his mistakes, highlighted Pine’s effectiveness. Hokor started subbing people on both sides of the ball. Yassoud Murphy came in for his first full-contact reps. When he carried the ball, he ran like a tank. His ever-present smile vanished, replaced by an expression that might have been more at home in a hand-to-hand ground war. The Sklorno rookie receivers, Denver and Milford, rotated in for several plays. Quentin waited and watched, trying to analyze the defensive weaknesses, and trying — unsuccessfully — to be patient.
“Barnes!” Hokor finally called after an agonizing hour. Quentin practically sprinted out to the huddle — this is where he’d show Hokor, and the whole team for that matter, why he deserved to start. The offense was now a hodge-podge of first-stringers, second-stringers and rookies. Denver and Mezquitic stared at him reverently. Yassoud smiled. Warburg nodded.
“Okay, boys, let’s take it to them. Pro-40 right flash, on two, on two, break.”
The players moved quickly from the huddle to the line, and Quentin felt in control for the first time since leaving Micovi. The VR sim was an amazing tool, but this was real, this was his chance to show everyone. He lined up behind Bud-O-Shwek, the center — and suddenly realized he had no idea how to take a snap from a Ki.
Quentin stared at the long tubular body. This close up, Bud-O’s body looked like a snake-skinned caterpillar with thick, multi-jointed spider legs. Pine and Yitzhak had made the snap look so natural Quentin hadn’t even thought about it. Where the hell was he supposed to put his hands?
“Barnes!” Hokor shouted. “What is your difficulty?”
Quentin looked up at the coach in his little hovercart. “Well, I… I’m not sure…”
“Oh rub me raw!” John Tweedy shouted. “The hick doesn’t know how to take snap from a Ki!”
Laughter erupted on the field. Quentin flushed red. Everyone was laughing, laughing at him. Even Warburg was laughing, dammit.
Pine calmly stepped forward.
“Just like this, kid,” Pine said, not a trace of laughter in his voice. Pine squatted down and slid his hands under Bud-O-Shwek’s posterior. Quentin now saw that Pine squatted down deeper and reached in farther than he would with a Human center, and had to stagger his feet a little bit in order to keep his balance.
“See?” Pine said. “It’s not so different. Just keep your left foot back a step or so, so you can reach in without falling over. Hut-HUT!”
Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball and shot forward, his body expanding quickly and violently. Pine tossed Bud the ball, then turned to Quentin.
“Got it, kid?”
Quentin nodded. Pine smiled, slapped him once on the shoulder pad, then jogged back behind the line to stand with Yhitzak.
“Let’s go,” Hokor called. “Run the play.”
The offensive line formed up again. Quentin staggered his feet as Pine had done, and reached far under Bud-O-Shwek. The Ki’s rear felt cold and hard. He felt the pebbly skin against the back of his hands. A wave of revulsion tinged with a hint of fear swept through him. He was touching one of them. Bud-O-Shwek seemed indifferent: his front right leg curled around the ball, waiting for the snap-count.
Quentin looked over his center and surveyed the defense.
It was like looking straight out into a nightmare.
Mai-An-Ihkole and Per-Ah-Yet, the starting Ki defensive tackles, eyed him with obvious hunger, their black eyes glistening. Ki helmets consisted of a clear, circular visor that ran all the way around the head, accommodating for their 360-degree vision. Above the visor, the black helmet pointed back like a dog’s claw, protecting the delicate vocal tubes.
The two Ki tackles were flanked by defensive ends Aleksandar Michnik and Ibrahim Khomeni, both amongst the biggest Humans Quentin had ever seen. They both hailed from Vosor-3, a world with gravity three times that of Earth.
Once, in school, he’d seen pictures of an extinct creature called a “gorilla.” The class had been on creation, how all creatures were created as-is by the High One. In the Planetary Union and the League of Planets, apparently, they believe that Humans had evolved from these gorillas. Quentin had agreed that the idea was absurd, that it was ridiculous to think gorillas had given birth to Human babies. But now, looking at the 525-pound Michnik, with arms bigger than Quentin’s thighs and legs bigger than Quentin’s chest, he suddenly had to wonder what a gorilla looked like if you shaved off all its fur and dressed it in football pads.
From the middle linebacker’s spot, John Tweedy’s evil laugh rang through the air. “Well, looks like we’ve got it easy now. The rookie is here to answer Sklorno prayers again.”
EAT CRAP LOSER scrolled across Tweedy’s face.
At left and right outside linebacker, respectively, Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright bounced in place: fast, vicious, powerful, one-eyed Quyth Warriors. Sometimes they moved on legs and arms, low to the ground and leaning forward, waiting to attack, and sometimes just on their legs, standing tall and surveying the field. If they blitzed, Quentin knew he’d have to react instantly to avoid them.
The Sklorno defensive backs added yet another horrific element to the defense, their translucent bodies and black skeletons showing clearly where the black jerseys and pads did not cover. Their armored eyestalks quivered with excitement.
He felt a flutter in his stomach, a queasy feeling he’d never experienced before on a football field. He knew the feeling, but vaguely, a distant echo of something he didn’t have time to think about.
“Blue twenty-one,” Quentin called. “Blue… twenty-one.”
Tweedy moved forward, his huge frame standing right at the line of scrimmage, in between Mai-An-Ihkole and Per-Ah-Yet.
“Here it comes, rookie!” Tweedy screamed, his face a contorted mask of psychotic rage. The strange feeling in Quentin’s stomach grew in intensity. Was Tweedy just showing blitz, or was he coming for real?
“Flash, flash!” Quentin called out, audibling to a short-pattern pass. If Tweedy blitzed, Warburg would likely be open on a crossing route. “Hut-hut!”
The line erupted like n
othing Quentin had ever seen or heard — so loud! The clatter of chitin and Ki battle screeches and Human grunts and smashing body armor filled the air like some medieval battle holo. Quentin pushed away from the line and reached the ball back for Yassoud to carry, then pulled it away at the last instant as a play-action fake. Quentin moved back four steps then turned and stood tall, looking for an open receiver.
Per-Ah-Yet ripped through the line and moved forward like a 560-pound, four-armed assassin. Quentin stepped up in the pocket and scrambled to the left to easily avoid the rush — or so he thought. A Human defensive tackle would have slipped by, momentum carrying him past as Quentin bounced forward towards the line. But Per-Ah-Yet wasn’t Human. The Ki stopped on a dime and turned as his body contracted like an accordion. He expanded suddenly and violently, driving towards Quentin, long body trailing behind like a snake. Per’s arms reached out much faster — and longer — than Quentin could have expected in his split-second decision to scramble. The long, thick, spider-like arms flashed out and hauled him in, lifting him off the ground, then driving him to the turf under all of Per-Ah-Yet’s weight and momentum. Quentin hit the ground hard. His body armor protected him from cuts and joint injuries, but couldn’t do much to guard him from the concussive force of a 560-pound defensive lineman slamming him to the ground.
He suffered a second or two of confused blackness. He didn’t know where he was. His brain couldn’t process the situation — he’d scrambled like that hundreds of times in his short career, moving past defensive tackles as if they were statues, leaving them in awe of his speed and athleticism. No one caught him from behind. No one. He’d been almost ten yards from this Ki, a huge cushion, and the lineman knocked the living tar out of him.